


Bird Of Prey

by LettersFromTheAsylum



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Animal Death, Blink and you'll miss it, Gen, Kidnapping, Paul/john is in it for a second, The Camping Trip, Young!Malcolm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LettersFromTheAsylum/pseuds/LettersFromTheAsylum
Summary: “How would you like to help me with something? It’s a special project. You mustn’t tell your mother.”
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Bird Of Prey

**Author's Note:**

> I kinda hate this one but I needed to get it out of my Google Docs so here is. This was written at eleven at night and I am tired. Probably my least favorite thing I've written so far for this show.

“He’s hurt,” Malcolm shouted. 

The station wagon’s headlights illuminated the young buck. Malcolm stood a safe distance from the animal like his father had told him to, afraid the deer might be startled and hurt him. Malcolm glanced behind him to the trunk of the vehicle where his father was rummaging through a duffle bag.

“Dad! We need to help him! He’s bleeding.” Malcolm inched his way forward before crouching a few feet away from the deer. 

Leaves crunched under Martin’s boots as he came closer. “Malcolm! I told you not to get too close.”

Malcolm’s head whipped around. He hadn’t realized his father was approaching, thought he’d have more time to examine the animal. “I–I was just trying to see where the blood was coming from.” His gaze was drawn down, to his father’s hand. “What are you doing with that?”

Martin held up the rifle. “We have to kill it, son.”

At that, Malcolm shot to his feet, standing protectively in front of the buck. “What? No! Can’t you call a vet?”

Martin shook his head solemnly. He smiled softly at the boy. “A vet can’t help him, Malcolm. Come here.” Martin crouched near the buck’s feet, carefully sidestepping the blood. It was dark, just after three in the morning. He pulled out a penlight and shined it over the deer’s torso. There was a gash across his stomach that was slowly leaking blood and staining the forest floor. “Someone shot at him. They grazed his stomach.”

“How did you know–“

“That isn’t important. Come on, now. Any time we waste is just unnecessary suffering.” Martin pulled the boy to his feet. He wanted to object but Martin was shoving the rifle into his grasp before he could open his mouth.

“Wh–What are you doing?” Malcolm held the thing awkwardly. It was too large, too bulky.

Martin adjusted the gun in his son’s hands, putting the butt against his shoulder. It was made for a child, but Malcolm had always been small for his age and he could barely reach the forestock.

“Malcolm, do you want him to suffer? He will die, but it’s going to take some time. His wound isn’t deep enough for his bleeding to be substantial.” His voice was serious, the same way it was when he was explaining why Malcolm shouldn’t go into the locked room at the other end of the basement. “But if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.”

As he moved to take the gun away, Malcolm jerked back. His eyes went from the deer, still breathing shallowly on the dirt path, to the rifle. He  _ didn’t  _ want the deer to suffer. He didn’t want  _ anyone  _ to suffer. Malcolm glanced back at his father, at his kind eyes and patient smile. 

“Why–“ He swallowed thickly, willing his eyes to stop stinging. He didn’t want to cry. He wanted to be strong, be a man. The boys at school said men don’t cry. “Why can’t you do it?”

Martin pursed his lips. He didn’t bother to answer. His hand wrapped around Malcolm’s right foot and pushed it back. “It will be quick, son. I promise.”

The buck let out a low whine and Malcolm wondered if he knew, if he was begging him not to do what he was about to do. He didn’t  _ want  _ to. Did the buck know that?

“I don’t want to do it, Dad. I can’t.”

“You can. Just point the gun at his head and shoot. It’s easy.” His voice was like silk.

He trusted his dad. He had never lied to him and was always patient with him, happily answering all of his questions and Malcolm knew he asked  _ a lot  _ of questions. His mother had always told him to read more or to ask his father, but they didn’t write books about why glue doesn’t stick to the inside of the bottle and how would his father know  _ that _ ?

The gun was difficult to hold, the weight of it filling him with a sense of dread. The deer’s head was limp on the ground and once it was firmly in his sights, he fired.

_ Will mom be mad? _

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He felt his father shift beside him but he still flinched at the warm hand on his back. His heart was pounding and he hoped his father couldn’t feel it through his coat. 

He tentatively opened his eyes and turned his head. Martin was beaming. “You did it. You’re a natural.”

For the first time in his life, his father’s praise felt more like a fist to the gut. It used to make him light up like a million Christmas trees but in this instance… Martin looked  _ far  _ too proud.

“Let’s go. It’s late and you need to sleep.” Martin was removing the gun from his hands and leading him back to the car.

Malcolm stayed rooted to his spot. “What about…”

Martin raised his eyebrows. He waved at the boy dismissively. “Ah, the birds will take care of him.”

Malcolm took one last glance at the now dead deer–the deer  _ he  _ killed–and turned away, walking with his head bowed to the back passenger seat.

When he was tucked into bed, warm and wide awake, he let the tears fall. Men didn’t cry, sure, but maybe he wasn’t destined to be a man.

———

Her blonde hair was splayed out over the concrete floor. There were twigs and dead leaves in the strands. Malcolm thought she was probably beautiful without the blood and dirt covering her from head to toe.

The girl’s wrists were bruised from the metal shackles that had been drilled into the wall of the box, keeping her locked inside. Her face was bruised. Malcolm didn’t know if that had happened before or after she tried to run. 

It was his fault. If something happened to her now, it was all his fault. He was the one who stole the key from his father’s jacket when he was cooking breakfast. He was the one who freed her, who gave her a false sense of hope by telling her there was a car parked out front. Malcolm thought his dad’s friend– _ John– _ had left. 

He was wrong. Now, this girl would likely die because of it.

The girl shivered in her sleep. She was probably cold, Malcolm reasoned. His father had taken all her clothes, leaving her in nothing but a raggedy bra and underwear that were now grimy. She had been allowed to keep her bracelet though. Malcolm wondered if it added to her suffering, reminding her that she was somebody. The tattoo on her hand, which Malcolm thought had once been a full heart, was sliced in half. 

Malcolm felt helpless. 

The door at the top of the stairs opened. He jumped and spun around. Martin has told him not to come down here. He still couldn’t tell if his father was angry at him for trying to free her. After they had caught her, Martin had told him to go to his room. Malcolm had snuck to the basement while Martin’s back was turned.

Martin glided down the stairs. When he came to a stop in front of his son, he sighed. “I figured you wouldn’t listen.” He sounded mildly frustrated, but not angry.

Malcolm was the only thing standing between his father and the girl. He didn’t know what his father’s intentions were. He had never seen this side of him, didn’t understand why they had driven hours away to keep a girl captive in the basement of a cabin. Malcolm had so many questions and Martin wouldn’t answer any of them.

“What are you going to do to her?”

Martin got a strange look on his face as he studied Malcolm. The little stunt he’d pulled earlier surprised him, but perhaps it shouldn’t have. Malcolm always had too much empathy for his own good. Martin recalled the boy crawling into bed with him and Jessica, bawling his eyes out after watching Bambi in the living room after they told him to go to bed.

He had been that way as a child too, but circumstances made it to where empathy was undesirable, even dangerous. Martin thought he could numb the boy to it, but it seemed he wasn’t trying the right things. 

Martin’s tongue darted over his lips. He got down on one knee, looking Malcolm in the eye. This was a huge leap, and it could go horribly,  _ horribly _ wrong _. _ If it didn’t, though… his legacy might just live on after all. 

“How would you like to help me with something? It’s a special project. You mustn’t tell your mother.”


End file.
